


Crimson Snow, Crimson Mask

by Zodiac



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood, Gen, Horror, Mind Manipulation, Possession, Psychological Torture, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zodiac/pseuds/Zodiac
Summary: Every empire begins somewhere. A mere seed planted in an influential mind. A soldier rising up above all others.They just normally don't begin with an ancient being making a deal with and forcibly hijacking a mortal body is all.





	Crimson Snow, Crimson Mask

Pain. Pain was all that he was aware of. Searing agony burning its way along his side akin to his own lifeblood creeping acid-like through his clothing, inexorably edging further and further away from the wounds it originated from—injuries caused by one of those feral, horned beasts who pretend to be men, the Hrothgar.

No true man would fight as viciously as them.

A projectile from one of their odd weapons caught him off-guard, aether-infused bullet easily punching through the side of his armor as though he was garbed in tin rather than the best the Garlean Republic had to offer. The beast then hurled himself towards him, following up the ringing shot with a heavy slash where the bullet had embedded itself, blade parting armor and flesh as though they were one and the same. After crumpling to the ground, in shock from the wound and the suddenness in which he had acquired it, the Hrothgar charged off, almost certainly planning on doing the same to his comrades, hopefully better prepared than he had been.

As it was now, Solus Galvus was bleeding out, the sounds of the battlefield muffled and far away in his blood-deprived brain. Despite the natural Ilsabard cold biting at his exposed flesh, he was sweating, brown hair damp and matting to his forehead and third eye. Shivering, he turned his face down into the trampled snow being stained by his own lifesblood, hardly able to feel the cold from it or the fresh tears beginning to streak down his face as he accepted that he was going to die here.

“...Suitable. Mayhap not _ perfect _in appearance, but I could certainly make tweaks as needed.”

The voice drifted down to his ears, contemplative, yet all-too calm, as though the owner of it was comparing two pieces of meat at a market. After a few moments, he gathered the strength to push himself over so he was on his back, letting out a pained groan as the movement exacerbated his wounds.

What greeted him was a man cloaked in a black robe, intimidating spikes rising from the shoulders. Most of his face was hidden by a crimson mask with concentric white circles, but the mouth that was visible was curved upwards at the edges in the slightest of smiles. The hood of the robe was pulled up, but he could see white wisps of hair sneaking out around the edges. Upon settling on his back, the stranger tilted his head, smile pursing up in an exaggerated fashion.

“Ah, still alive, are we? Well, not for long looking at those injuries of yours, but good for you, I suppose.”

“Wh-who…?”

A slow, but flourished bow was his first response, accentuating the clawed gloves this strange man wore. “Emet-Selch is what I am called and I have a… proposition for you. I presume you still wish to live?”

“Well… yes, but like you said…” Solus’ gaze fell from him, settling on his bleeding side. “With these sorts of wounds, it’s…”

“It’s child’s play.” He finished for him with a dismissive wave of the hand. At the bewildered look he received, there was another damnable tilt of the head, a confident smirk. “What? Do you believe I wear these robes simply for show?”

Well, fair enough… Still, these injuries seemed too severe to be healed even with the aid of magic, though his Garlean heritage made him less than knowledgeable in the arcane arts, so he couldn’t be certain about it. Then again, what could he possibly gain for lying about his healing skills to a dying man?

“...You said you had a p-proposition. Healing me would be your end of the bargain, I’m guessing, so… what would be mine?”

“Yours? Hm…” He raised a clawed hand to his chin, cupping it and tilting his head this way and that as though he hadn’t considered it until now. “I have certain tasks that I could use you for. A frail, old man such as myself has so many things to do, after all.”

Well, he certainly didn't look _ that _ old, but he wasn't about to argue about the age of someone offering to heal him. No, there was a much more important point on his mind. "...I'm part of the Garlean army, you know. If I suddenly disappear to help you, they… they might label me a deserter, hunt me down and—"

Another wave of that hand, dismissing his concerns as though they were mere complaints instead of valid worries. "Another thing you need not fear. Believe me, I have thought through how to explain this to your superiors and I assure you that they will see things my way. All you need to do is make the choice." That same hand reached down, claws and palm turning upwards as it was offered to him.

"Die here in the snow or accept my _ gracious _ offer."

Well, when he put it that way, there really wasn't an option, was there?

Drawing in a breath that felt like daggers stabbing into his aching lungs, he managed to push himself up just enough to take hold of that hand. "I accept."

As soon as those words left his lips, Emet-Selch _ smiled, _grip squeezing his hand with strength unbefitting that of a mere old man until it felt as though his fingers were about to snap from the strain and then… it relented.

Just as quickly as it had come, the pressure had abruptly vanished and, when his eyes travelled down to where the hand should have been, it became apparent that it had vanished as well. In fact, the whole body of the other man was following suit, becoming ethereal and fading away. In fact, the only part of him that seemed to be staying was that mask, that angry red color just as vibrant as ever.

So stunned by what he was seeing (and unable to do much of anything even if he wanted to), he remained stone-still as the man disappeared until only the mask hovered before him. It stayed there for a moment, two, before it twirled around and shot towards his face, settling over his eyes as easily as if it were tailor-made for him.

It was that action that snapped him out of his reverie and he released a pained, startled yelp as his hands flew to his face in an attempt to pry it away, but finding it firmly affixed in place. His fingers dug all around the smoothed edges of it, but despite the lack of straps or anything else to fasten it, no amount of force even so much as budged it.

It was then, as he was quickly working himself into a panting, panicky mess trying to get that damnable mask off, that he heard an all-too familiar voice.

_ "Oh come now, you accepted the offer and you're still fighting? While I admire your tenacity, I am afraid I must chide you for your dishonesty." _

He jerked his head about, trying and failing to find the source of that man's voice, though it was made significantly harder by the mask narrowing his vision. Even so, it sounded extremely close, but with an echoey quality to it… but wait, he was in the middle of an open field, so there was nothing around to cause such an effect… Unless…

_ "Correct. I'm in your cramped little head." _

"...Get out." Solus' voice was raw, ragged with horror and panic threatening to spill over. "I don't know what manner of creature you are, but _ get out." _

_ "Mmm…" _ A pause and, despite Emet-Selch having no visible body, Solus could feel that he was doing that mock thinking again, taunting him. _ "No. We had a deal, you agreed to it, and so it is time for me to collect." _

Before he could protest further, there was another sensation entirely, a sharp cold piercing into his brain, like it was suddenly dropped into water more frigid than anything he had felt before. He reflexively gasped, mind tricking his body into thinking he was drowning on dry land, but oh, there's a sudden _ pressure _too as though he was being yanked so far down that the cold was smothering him, choking every attempted thought before they even had a chance to coalesce. His fingers twitched, scrambling at the suddenly too-warm snow as though he could haul himself free from this torment if he only put enough physical effort into it. Even as he tried, his vision blurred and, as the edges of his sight grew black, one last coherent thought bubbled up to the surface.

This suffocating sensation wasn't merely cold or water.

It was darkness.

_ "Oh yes, I have so very _ ** _many _ ** _ things I can use you for…" _

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and wanted to screech at me in a manner similar to socializing, then you can find my Twitter right [here](https://twitter.com/HippestGlitch).


End file.
